Writings about Education and Life in New England

Monthly Archives: September 2018

Why is anyone acting as though the FBI will not get to the bottom of this case? Seriously, I know it seems hard to imagine, but despite what Donald Trump would have you think . . . the FBI is really freaking good at what it does.

No, the FBI is not going to get a definitive answer on what happened in that bedroom.

But whether this party happened in the first place, and whether Kavanaugh and Blasey Ford were both there? I think they can manage that. Why are we even thinking this is going to be hard for them?

After all, there are tons of leads. For one thing, there is a date on Kavanaugh’s calendar — July 1, 1982 — when he went to a party at Tim Gaudette’s house with many of the boys who supposedly attended the party Blasey Ford referenced in her testimony. Go talk to some of those guys. Visit Gaudette’s house, see what it looks like, and if it matches Blasey Ford’s description. Talk to Chris Garrett (“Squi”) — who dated Blasey Ford and supposedly introduced her to Kavanaugh. See what he knows. Start talking to some of the other guys, like Mark Judge. Remind him of a few details from the case, and see what he has remembered. And what about Blasey Ford’s friend, who she says was there — Leland Keyser. Talk to her a little more, see what she remembers.

This is nothing revolutionary. This is what a good law enforcement agency does. Local police departments do it all the time. You talk to people. You ask them pointed questions, you remind them about dates, you get them to tell you things they remember. Those things they tell you give you leads, maybe other people to talk to, other houses to visit. Someone remembers something — “Oh, I remember Christine Blasey was really upset about something that happened the night before — I think it was at this party at . . .” — and then, BOOM, you have a fresh lead.

People are acting like just because some of these people have made statements through their lawyers saying they don’t remember this party, that it never happened.

Friends, in the real world, when a crime is committed, just because potential witnesses say they don’t remember, that doesn’t mean anything.

Hell, that’s when a good investigator is just getting started.

Mark Judge claims he doesn’t remember?

For professional investigators, that’s not a dead end. That’s a starting point.

***

But here’s the problem: If the FBI does its job well, that may do it more harm than good.

Grant my premise that the FBI is probably going to turn up some reasonably credible evidence that Blasey Ford and Kavanaugh attended the same party in the summer of 1982, corroborating specific details (house location, floor plan, event participants) given by Blasey Ford.

Or perhaps the FBI identifies a witness who was most definitely at the party, and most definitely claims the incident did take place. Maybe someone even saw Blasey Ford run down the stairs, upset . . .

Say the FBI comes out with this. What do you think Donald J. Trump is going to do?

A) Throw a giant parade for the FBI, declaring a “tremendous effort.”

B) Tell the Senate, “Back the drawing board; find me another justice — but make this one ethical.”

C) Blast the FBI on Twitter and Fox, calling the whole thing “a partisan witch hunt!” by “Rod Rosenstein and his Angry Democrats” and tarnish the bureau’s findings to the point where 1) half the American public believes him, and 2) Republican senators feel pressure to IGNORE the FBI’s findings and vote Kavanaugh in anyway.

I’ll take “C,” Vanna.

If there’s anything Donald Trump hates, it’s a free press and an independent system of law enforcement. Everything that he has done since he has become president is aimed at making the justice department into his personal weapon. He wants the Attorney General to be his fixer. The FBI Directory should take a loyalty oath. If the FBI turns up credible evidence that rains on his Supreme Court parade, Trump’s going to take it as a personal insult. Why aren’t they loyal to him?

He’s going to keep trying to tear them down, in doing so tearing at the fabric of the rule of law in this country.

This case isn’t just about the courts. It’s about having independent law enforcement unafraid to show a tyrannical president what he doesn’t like.

We’re about to see what happens then. I think I have a pretty good idea.

Someone forwarded me this link the other day. It describes #outofmypocket — a movement to share how much teachers spend on classroom supplies out of their own pockets. While this didn’t take off in quite the same way as last year’s social media posts about teachers’ low paychecks and second jobs, I was taken aback by some of the stories. The site estimates that 94% of teachers spend their own money on classroom supplies, and some posters spent thousands of dollars on markers, glue sticks, even on notebooks. And can you imagine a school district cruel enough that they make teachers buy their own tissues? It happens.

From what I understand, it’s pretty routine for elementary teachers to send out a list of supplies parents and children are expected to provide each year. Yet in many schools where the parents cannot afford these items, it’s none other than the teachers who end up eating the costs.

This is hard for me to picture. As a public school teacher, I have never spent money on school supplies for students. Then again, I am a high school teacher; I barely need any supplies. But the ones I do need, my school has always, unthinkingly supplied. I have never bought tissues.

That said, I could imagine doing it. I buy food for students, for celebrations. I remember a coworker, now deceased, whose homeroom students, after her death, were astounded when they calculated the sheer amount of money she spent bringing in croissants over the years. She cared. It showed. That was just one small way. She’d have considered any talk about money beside the point. She loved those kids. Just like lots of teachers do too — they care so much about kids that they’d rather go broke than let a kid go without. Say what you want about teachers, but they put their money where there mouth is.

But what if they didn’t?

Remember how that poor professor at Evergreen State in Washington, Bret Weinsten, got run out of town two years ago by the irate mob for objecting to that weird practice they were proposing? It was called “Day of Absence” and the original idea (not the wacky form Weinstein questioned) was actually quite powerful: all POC (which means “People of Color,” in case you’re not Woke [which means “Super Cool” in case you’re not “super cool”]) would spend the day “absent” from campus in order to show the impact of POC in the life of the community. Nice.

Well, here’s my modest proposal: Maybe next year teachers should have a Year of Absence for Our Wallets. Instead of buying supplies, take what the school budget gives you. No money for tissues? Let them use their sleeves. The kids want to color with actual markers? Tell them to use their imaginations.

I wonder what happens?

Actually, scratch that. It wouldn’t work. You know why? Because the things teachers give kids with money from their own wallet? You can’t measure those on what matters to the purse-holders: a standardized test! Crayons and markers? Learn your times tables, brats. Construction paper and glue sticks? We have a world economy to dominate. Picture books to learn to read? Everyone knows what happened to Mr. Bunny Rabbit already — he didn’t do his STEM homework, so he couldn’t compete in a global economy, and he was baked into a pie by his rivals, the Chinese. Quit blubbering.

That’s why teachers do it, I think. For the kids whose parents can’t provide this stuff, no one’s going to notice if they don’t have it . . . except their teachers.

God bless ’em.

(And raise their salaries.)

***

Speaking of schools, and wealth, this past week, as part of my Fancy Fellowship, I had the chance to visit perhaps the wealthiest school district in Vermont to deliver a life changing lecture . . . scratch that, I was sitting in a windowless conference room drawing on chart paper and trying not to drink too much coffee.

Anyway, for such a wealthy district, I was taken aback by what a cruddy facility they have. “They spend their money on staff, not on buildings” is what I heard. Makes sense, but still. This place was terrible: vintage 70s, open classrooms (why was this ever a good idea?), secretaries and guidance staff stuffed into closets, windowless rooms, a cafeteria that looks it’s at a motor inn that’s going out of business, bathrooms like Fenway Park and Mad River Glen’s. It was grim. And I have a high tolerance, folks.

Anyway, the most shocking thing to me, a jaded denizen of some glittering palace over in Montpelier, was the lack of a common space. When I walked into this high school, I was met, first, by a weird, impersonal buzzer that I could not figure out how to operate. (“Oh, well,” I thought, “maybe high school doesn’t want me. But you know who I bet does? My local alt-right hate group . . . “) After I finally made it inside, I was ceremoniously confronted by a small holding cell space. It wasn’t quite a brick wall, but it was close. Go right or go left, it seemed to say, but don’t linger here. Do you get what I’m saying? There was no common space. Where I work, visitors immediately enter a huge, soaring atrium — two stories tall, with skylights and plants and tables to sit at and plenty of open space. You’ll see kids sitting at tables together, teachers milling around talking to kids and to each other, sometimes you’ll see the principal chatting with everyone. Not only does it look a whole hell of a lot more inviting than a holding cell, but it functions to route everyone, at some point in their day, into the same common space. Everyone passes through the atrium; all the wings of the school flow through it.

I once read about some tech company — it’s so hard to remember the names of them, isn’t it? — I think it was called Moogle or Racebook or Crapple — that specifically designed their headquarters so that employees from different divisions would be bumping into each other and (the thinking went) hashing out innovative ideas (such as the ability to order a take out burrito while completely intoxicated — wouldn’t that be cool?) Well, the same things happen where I work. I’m always running into colleagues and students in the atrium. I’m always having inspiring discussions with them, saying incredible things to them, such as, “Why are you avoiding me?” or “Is it because you haven’t been to class in months?”

So as you can see, having common space isn’t just convenient, it’s community-building. Architecture is important. That’s why I think that schools that have no leisurely common gathering space, no places that belong to the public, outside of more utilitarian spaces like the cafeteria or library, is missing out. It’s like a having parks in your city, or an old-fashioned town square in your village.

It’s good for the community soul.

***

The last thing I want to mention about schools today also has to do with this glorious atrium of ours. But this one’s a little more dark. Bear with me.

Do you ever have a moment where you’ve been fighting for something, and you’re losing, and you’re sort of resigned to it, but then something so utterly ridiculous happens that you realize just how badly you have already lost, and you can only laugh at your abject stupidity for ever thinking you had a chance in the first place?

No? Well, I did.

Twice over the last few weeks, I have “caught” students playing first person shooter video games. I say “caught” because they were making no attempt to hide it. They were in the middle of a crowded atrium. On their school-issued computers. In a public high school.

I was sort of speechless. This would be like having the gall to read a Charles Murray book in the middle of the dining hall at Middlebury College. So I went up to the young man, who was actually sitting where middle schoolers normally sit, and I asked him if he had given a single thought to the symbolism of his actions.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m in high school.”

As if that was what I was worried about. Actually, it is — you are in a high school, my friend. That’s the problem!

Maybe we haven’t quite lost the fight, but we’re definitely on the floor and bleeding. Nothing more perfectly symbolizes what we’re up against with school violence. Nothing more perfectly shows that we need to address the root of the problem, not the surface of it. I am not saying that video games cause school shootings. Far from it. I am saying that violence so saturates our world that putting more guns in schools is so far beside the point, it’s insane.

1. Every year, after about my second run, I start to remember the rapids. Then I don’t come back for a year.

2. If you are with a group that doesn’t want to hike up and run the top rapid, find another group. An open boat is no excuse.

2a. Because that’s the best rapid, that top one. The dam. The chaotic eddy scene. The horizonline. The wave train. The surf wave. That steep right turn just below, with the big pourover on the right, where the river’s at its pushiest. I could spent all day up there.

3. Has the West always been so warm? That was bathwater.

4. Here’s how you know you’re getting old. You pull something in your neck . . . before you put on the river. Maybe it was a “riding shuttle” injury? Maybe it was a “standing in line for shuttle” injury? I’m 36, by the way.

5. Nowhere else in New England do you see what you see at the West. NOWHERE. I saw at least four tandem open boats. I saw at least twenty C-1s. I saw at least 100 solo open boats. There were duckies . . . and shredders . . . and riverboards . . . and stand-up paddle boards.

Where are all these people from? Why don’t I see any of them on the Dryway?

6. My gear is sort of locked in the mid-2000s. I need to get me one of those new river runner boats. Party Brrap, Ripper, Axiom . . . They look fun. That’s a good trend. I never liked the whole microscopic playboat era.

6a. I would never buy a Jackson. Nothing personal. But the whole smiley face icon thing . . . just the wrong branding for me.

7. The best move at the Dumplings is the old school ender in a long boat at the ender spot near the bottom. The second best is the pillow move in the center slot at the top. The least best move is what every single boater in this video is doing.

8. Hit the boof at Boof Rock and then turn around and catch the big wave right below and you are doing just fine.

9. Real slalom boaters walk the shuttle . . . with no shoes.

9a. Real open boaters pull their canoe on a cart, then fold it up, and put it in the boat. Done and done.

10. I love burgers. I consider myself a burger connoisseur. Here is where you can get some of the best burgers in Vermont: the Three Penny Taproom, the Farmhouse, the Worthy Burger. Here is where you can get the best burger in Vermont: the food stand at the West take out after a long day of paddling. Food never tasted so good.

11. They used to hold the slalom National Championships and US Team Trials on the Dumplings. A lot. That fact that they stopped says nothing about the West. It says everything about slalom’s priorities. Instead of beautiful rivers like the West or the Savage, now we race on plastic legolands like Charlotte or concrete ditches like Dickerson.

12. In fact, lots of interesting stuff happened at slalom races on the West. Jim Snyder first conceived of squirt boating at the West, while watching a racer inadvertently dip his stern. Eric Jackson, founder of Jackson Kayaks, met his wife at a race on the banks of the West.

13. Sometimes I hear people brag on the shuttle about how many runs they’ve done. Seriously? If you’re doing more than about three runs, you are not working the river enough. Learn to catch eddies.

14. You never appreciate what kind of shape you used to be in until you can’t make the same moves you used to. I could see where I wanted to go, I just couldn’t get there.

15. Jamaica? Where the hell did that come from anyway?

16. I tired myself out pretty quickly and just started began floating. That was within sight of the put in.

17. If I had to pick one event that really captures the essence of the boating community in New England, in all its quirkiness and character, I’d pick West Fest.

For the last six years, I’ve been searching for the answer. What was it about whitewater boating that put such a hold on me?

Of course there are a lot of reasons. Let’s start with the fact that an early morning run down the New Haven Ledges in Vermont is the surest cure for a hangover I’ve found. And of course there’s the challenge of rapids, the natural beauty of rivers, and the exercise.

But digging deeper, the main thing I miss about boating is simple: the camaraderie. Nothing bonds a group of strangers like a river trip. It’s purposeful; you have to work through problems together, like shuttling or scouting. It’s just the right amount of socializing; you can chat in the eddy, or be alone in the current. The whole interaction has a clear beginning, middle and end point. You push each other to try stuff, get scared together, celebrate together. If the rapids are hard, the logistics demanding, or the river remote, all the better. It’s unity.

Think of the scene. Then think of how rare it is in the rest of your life: You call up a stranger and agree to meet at the take out. By the time you’re tying on boats together, you’re already cementing a bond, swapping war stories about rivers you’ve run and mutual friends you’ve run them with.

“Oh, sure, the Upper Blackwater . . . ”

“Yeah, I know him well. One time he put on the Gauley and he didn’t have his life jacket . . . ”

“That rapid has my number. On our first run, we tried to run it blind . . . ”

You climb into someone’s truck, boats in back, and you drive to the put in while exchanging that wonderful kind of nervous talk — feeling each other out, trying to pretend your heart isn’t racing. Every rite bonds you further. Zipping into equipment together makes you feel like you’re going into battle together. Then hiking down to the river gorge and paddling away takes you away from normal life. Then you’re scouting, deliberating together, holding a rope for each other (“Don’t worry, I got you!”) — communicating with simplified verbal cues (“right, left, right”), hand signals, following each other over horizonlines, giving yourself five seconds, battling through the chaos, following the blur of bright blue or orange, high-fiving at the bottom, feeling your heart rate finally start to slow, your conversation on the paddle out no longer nervous but effusive.

“Can you believe how big that was?”

“Next time I want to try the far left life.”

“It’s not as bad as people said it was!”

At the take out, you’re ready to sit on the tailgate and crack open a beer, trading war stories about this run you now share in common. This feeling is especially strong if this was a new river you’ve been wanting to do. Now you know what it’s like, it’s in your brain, and you can return and bring other people. Even if it’s a familiar river, it’s still a memorable experience you’ve shared. Everyone can talk about it at the take out, everyone had a role, everyone can add something about what it was like from their perspective to come through.

Ostensibly an individual sport, boating is actually the greatest team sport. In most team sports, you don’t really have common experiences. Not everyone’s involved in all the plays, and not everyone’s even on the field for the same parts of the game. Plus, you’re really not facing the same specific challenge; you’re facing a moving, swirling opponent composed of five or nine or eleven individual players with unique roles, constantly shifting in their attack or defense, rotating in and out of the game to be replaced by other players. Your experience may be much more frustrating, on the left wing against a good right back, than your teammate’s over on the right wing against a slow defender. Even your own experience against the same team may different from game to game, depending on the swells of the action, the whims of the player substitution, and the vagaries of team strategy. Individual identities are subverted to the team concept; it’s not unusual to get the end of a high school game and not be able to tell the other team’s players apart. While you’re technically facing the same opponent as your teammates, that opponent is fluid, ever-changing, and composed of parts designed to be interchangeable. It’s sometimes unifying, but not always.

But we boaters share highly unique, common adversaries: individual rivers and rapids. These obstacles, which tend to change little over time, often require a very specific, complex set of moves. Making these moves, having the courage to try these unique challenges, and having to travel to the same (often remote) physical location to do so, breeds an amazing unity of experience among boaters. There is an amazing kinship with two other people, floating in the eddy below Gorilla on the Green Narrows, knowing you’ve all just passed the difficult same test. There is also kinship between two boaters just meeting each other in a put in parking lot in Maine who both realize that they too share this experience of running Gorilla. So too is there a kinship across age gaps. I remember meeting John Sweet and Tom McEwan and feeling tremendous admiration for these men who had run rapids on the Gauley and Upper Yough that were just as challenging thirty years before. Rivers don’t get any easier. In fact, they were harder with primitive equipment. But we’re all united by the rapids and rivers we share, even though our experiences are highly unique and personal. It’s the ultimate individual team sport.

Of course, while these bonds with other boaters are deep, there is a superficiality to the whole experience — to the river chasing, the couch surfing, the gypsy life. Yes, you share an incredible bond at the take out of a hard river, but what are you really doing with your life? There’s always an element of escapism, of leisure time, to river adventures. This, of course, is the hypocrisy of the dirt bag: most “dirt bags” (as with most “starving artists”) are only playing at being poor, because they possess the sort of cultural (or actual) capital that allows them to spend time learning to boat, not learning to get by. For too many people in our society, just keeping the lights on and the fridge half-full is adventure enough. Meanwhile, most professional kayakers are doing little more than promoting plastic shells or brightly colored suits, filling the internet with videos (“content,” if we’re being pretentious), supporting the alcohol industry, and maybe occasionally teaching. It’s hard for me not to look at some of the guys still dirt bagging around past 30 as having stayed a little too long at the party. As I left my own twenties, I left behind the amazing closeness of the river gorge but gained newer, deeper relationships in other aspects of my life. I met my wife around the time I stopped chasing rain, started a career that allows me to give back, and began to cultivate professional and community relationships that, in their sense of shared purpose, sometimes feel a lot like the bonds I remember from my heavy paddling days — without the physical danger, of course.

And yet we need escapism, all of us. Now matter how rich and rewarding your life is, you need moments away. And no matter how privileged it is to be able to afford to kayak, no matter how superficial it may seem compared to other pursuits, it’s by no means unhealthy. I wish everyone of all social classes or backgrounds had enough money and leisure to be able to have active physical experiences outdoors. Paddling exercises your body, teaches you decision-making skills, and engenders a respect for our natural environment. We all need some kind of a escape, some kind of adventure in our lives, and what paddling does better than any other hobby I’ve experienced is to put us in a position to share this adventure with our fellow human beings. That’s something we need in an age of disconnection.

These days, I’m afraid that when I do boat, I mostly boat solo. It’s partly because I don’t have time, or I tell myself I don’t, to coordinate with others. Plus, I enjoy the exercise of biking or jogging shuttle, the solitude on a river all to myself after a busy day at work. But it struck me the other week, running into an old friend at the put in as I was about to run solo, how much richer adventures are when shared.

Right now, it’s raining. And tomorrow I’m going paddling with a group of three — more people than I’ve paddled with, combined, in a year. It’s not a hard river, but it doesn’t have to be. By the time we get to the take out, it’s a river we’ll have in common.